Dead Flowers
by DealingDearie
Summary: Abe wakes up extra early one day, and Red and Liz pretend it's a day like any other-but everyone knows it's far from normal. Feedback of any kind is always appreciated.


On the day of Abe's travels, Red remains aloof, not being too pushy or questioning to his old friend, wary of the foul mood descending over the house-over all of Ireland, really.

Abe doesn't mention it, never does, and instead just wakes early, as he always does, and packs an extra outfit, in case he runs into some sort of trouble or mess and needs a new set of clothes. His reactions are slower, proven by his sluggish walking as he carries a small bag of necessities with him through the halls, and Liz always prepares a container of rotten eggs, insisting that he eat, even though he'll be back before the day is over.

Liz tries not to coddle him, and scoffs at the idea of _her_ coddling anyone, and she avoids eye contact with him for the remainder of the morning. The twins look at him curiously, and their small faces are peacefully ignorant, and they trail him through the house, ceaselessly asking question after question as to why he's leaving and where he's going, and one or the other usually ends up crying, and the small gaps in their mouths create a slight whistling sound as they hiccup through the tears to beg him not to go. He just brushes his thumb over their cheeks, kissing the tops of their ebony haired heads, murmuring reassurances of his return.

Liz scoops them up from the doorway, then, and lets herself have a lasting glance at her friend, who blinks over at her, nothing revealed in the expression of his face, and she hurries off with an inward sigh, ignoring the twins' protests as she carries them out of sight and to the living room, where Red is seated upon the large couch, his face contemplative. His tail swishes lazily in the air, and Liz can always look over at her husband to find that familiar gleam of concern flaring up in his amber eyes.

Abe goes to a remote little store, one that barely gets any business but manages to stay above debt and closure, and roams around its small interior for a moment, remaining hesitant after so many years of repeating this task, and the store owner knows his name, and calls it out in a friendly greeting, smiling-like always.

Abe walks along the rows of flowers, the scent of plants and petals irritating his delicate senses, and picks out the brightest, deepest crimson roses he can find, and the full blooms wink up at him, glistening water rolling down their outer shells. He sets them on the counter and pays the usual amount for them, an outrageous price that he hardly minds anymore, and walks back out of the store to his car, where he painstakingly de-thorns the dozen roses he's bought.

It takes a good hour, and the sun beats down on his car windshield fiercely, and he's glad he doesn't have sweat glands, but the heat seeps through his leather and onto his skin, nearly burning it. After he's done, he places them in the passenger seat, careful to not crush any of the roses, and starts his car to drive down a familiar path, familiar roads and familiar turns and familiar landscapes that he's passed a hundred times, hours of driving to reach a place where roads have not touched, grass and dirt and rocks for miles and miles.

Preferring to walk, he parks his car somewhere far away, and carries the roses in his gloved grip, clutching them like his life depends on it. He walks until he sees a familiar rock standing higher than the rest, jutting into the sky with jagged edges, and he reaches into his pocket and fishes a time worn whistle out, given to him in pity by a local troll, and Abe's heart pounds with unhindered rage.

_Pity._

He doesn't need it, doesn't want it, and his hand tightens around the whistle as he blows into it, a sound so high coming from it that he can't hear its tune, and he watches as the rock shifts. He's used to it, now, and the amazement and wonder no longer comes to him, as the rock moves and stretches to resemble the shape of a person, its middle opening to form a doorway.

Without hesitation, he walks through it, and the distinct scent of dust and decay and rot fill his nostrils, and the urge to sneeze is lost to him as he makes his way down crumbling bridges and worn pathways. He devises a path, and he takes it warily, always watching out for any shifting stone or troublemaking creature, but comes upon no one, and the lonely walls echo his own melancholy thoughts as he finally makes it over to a giant, ascending staircase littered with dormant mechanical soldiers, tiredly weaving his way through their giant bodies of dead gears and machinery, the memory of them fresh in his mind. His skin still burns from the sun, and the pack, light with clothes and eggs, seems pounds heavier, the roses dripping water upon the steps as he climbs.

At last, he tops the final step, and avoids looking over at a crumbled statue as he passes it, still too bitter to do so. Walking through a familiar hallway, and trekking up a few stone steps, Abe makes it to the very top of two winding gears that have not ceased since they were built, and stops to stare at the sight before him.

A statue, one made of natural brown stone, is laid upon the dais, hand outstretched as if to clutch at something, head relaxed in sleep-a woman, with her eyes peacefully closed, her hair splayed out upon her layered dress. Slowly, he shuffles over to her, and notices the dead pile of roses at her side, picking them up and tossing them away. Kneeling down next to her, he takes off his glove, and is assaulted with vivid images of daggers and blood and golden eyes, and as he glances toward her slumbering face, he feels the pain all over again, overcome with his sorrow.

Placing his webbed hand upon her stone fingers, he runs a finger over her knuckles, setting the fresh roses down near her face. His vision blurs with tears, and the familiar burn of them make him cry harder as he stares down at her. A body, not a statue, he thinks slowly, and lays his palm against her cold cheek, tears dripping from his face and onto the stone floor beneath them.

The roses are bright against the brown and dimmed gold of the room, and they catch his attention, pulling his eyes away from her for a moment-a moment that he needs to let his vision clear.

_Thank you for the flowers_.

She's there, sitting next to her body with her pale feet tucked under her, and he notices that her green dress is different from the golden one she last wore in life. He wonders if there really is a world after this one, and wonders again if she is living in it, just like he lives in this one. But this woman laughs, and it rings in his memories, and her gold tipped hair shines in the harsh light, her soft smile sending his heart pounding wildly.

_They're very beautiful_, she murmurs kindly, her voice almost loving, and Abe reinforces his grip on her stone hand, pretending that her flesh is what he feels beneath his fingers, and she watches him with a sad glimmer within her round irises.

_This is your forever, Abraham? _

He looks up at her, surprised.

_Holding something that cannot return the gesture?_ A

be shakes his head, keeping his grip firmly upon her hand, his gills flapping rapidly.

"Not something-_someone_," he corrects her plainly, his voice shaking with emotion, and he takes a deep breath to will it away. She shakes her head, and Abe sees pity in her gaze, that same rage igniting within him.

_It's not my pity that I show you, Abraham, _she explains slowly, alarmed at his response._ It is my desire._

Confused, he blinks at her, and she tucks a stray strand of pale hair behind her pointed ear, a rose gilded blush coming to her cheeks and coloring the scars upon her face.

_This is not the life I wish for you, nor the life you wish for yourself. I want you to stop this, and let me stay here in peace-peace uninterrupted by your visits. _

He retracts his hand from hers, wounded, and shakes his head.

"But I know you, and I know that you're lying to protect me."

He stares into her tearing eyes.

"I don't want your pity, or your desire, or your lie. I just can't bear to let you fade in my memories, and coming here refreshes them," he says quietly, reserved even from her, and hears her heavy sigh just as he feels the ghost of her touch upon his skin.

"I'll come back when the flowers die," he whispers curtly, tearing his gaze away from hers to pick himself up, dusting off his knees as he walks away.

He catches an echo, and the flash of a smile, and the memory of the feel of her pulse thrumming through their entwined hands.

_I know you will, Abraham. You always do._

**Please R&R! Feedback of any kind is always appreciated! ;)**

**All rights go to their respectful owners. I own nothing. **


End file.
